


Lest Faith Turn

by lyrithim



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Curses, Dubcon Kissing, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Magic Revealed, Off-screen torture, References to Animal Abuse, ish, since Arthur doesn't really have a choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 03:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrithim/pseuds/lyrithim
Summary: Due to the remnants of a poison, Merlin must kiss Arthur at dawn every single day to wake his prince from a cursed sleep.





	Lest Faith Turn

**Author's Note:**

> Wildly historically/canonically/British-ly inaccurate. The AU point is set at... some point after season one? I think? *handwaves*
> 
> **Warning:** As mentioned in the tags: off-screen animal abuse, off-screen torture. The whole premise is a little dubcon-y too, of course, since Arthur doesn't have a choice when his life is endangered.

 

The latest assassination attempt on Arthur consisted of four dancing clowns, three fig trees, two latently animate suits of armor, and a man on stilts. Merlin had foiled their Plan A, B, C, D, and who knew how many others—which was his excuse for missing the poisoned goblet.

“I was dealing with a magic knife and a man with very impressive leg muscles on the other side of the room. Discreetly. Behind the whole court,” he said to Gaius as he dipped some ground-up roots into the prince’s mouth. “How was I to know that prat wouldn’t even check to see whether the person serving his drink was, I don’t know, _someone the castle employed_?”

He added two slaps on Arthur’s cheek for good measure. Now that Arthur was no longer in mortal danger, Merlin thought, unconsciousness was a good look on him.

“There are many employed in this castle. Arthur has other duties to attend to,” Gaius said as he dropped a bead of the poisoned wine onto a bed of shredded blossoms. He frowned.

“What is it?” Merlin asked.

“It’s nothing. Must be an impurity in the wine,” Gaius replied. He disposed of the sample. “No, it is as I suspected.”

“Magic,” Merlin said flatly.

“Yes,” Gaius agreed. “The good news is that I’ve seen it before, and the prince here escaped the worst of the effects when you swatted the goblet away from his hands. Again.”

“What’s the cure?”

Gaius sighed and straightened his back. “Well.”

After Gaius finished his explanations, Merlin was filled with such horror that his only consolation was to subject Arthur to the same feeling when the latter woke up a few minutes later.

“Oh god,” Arthur said. Then: “Never.”

“I’m not too happy about this either,” Merlin snapped.

“Isn’t there another way? Or another person?” Arthur asked Gaius. “I could also—you know—not sleep.”

“Your Highness,” Gaius said, long-suffering. “The cure asks for a kiss each day from one of the people closest to the victim’s heart to wake from a cursed, and inescapable, sleep. If you would rather that I ask His Majesty to perform—”

“Say no more, Gaius,” Arthur said, his ears burning red. “I believe my manservant is more than adequate for the task.”

Arthur dropped into a dead slumber as soon as the first midnight bells rang in the distance. Gaius sighed and lifted himself from the chair, saying it was time to report back to King Uther, and shouldn’t Merlin be carrying Arthur back to his chambers now?

Merlin did, after much flailing up the stairs and concerned looks from other servants. He responded to the latter with a quick shake of the head, mouthing “drunk” with a significant look in his eyes. Eventually he bumped into Gwen, who sweetly offered to help. They set Arthur on his bed, and Gwen patted her hands on her apron and bid Merlin farewell. After positioning Arthur more comfortably—even though he did not deserve any comfort whatsoever—Merlin leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

A breeze drifted in from the open windows, and a shaft of moonbeam that had been struggling against the heavy curtains fluttered in to catch Arthur in a light embrace. How regal he looked then, Merlin thought, mesmerized. How more like a prince than whatever demeanor he forced in his father’s presence.

Arthur began snoring. Merlin started to giggle, but he muffled the sound in the crook of his elbow. Arthur was not going to wake up, but who knew what a maid passing by would think, to hear the prince’s manservant laughing at his expense?

 

 

The first kiss they shared was as far from romantic as one could get. Merlin had overslept, woken up to see dawn’s rosy fingers clawing their way up the eastern mountains, then practically flown the way to the prince’s chambers, shirtless and knocking over half the castle’s produce. Once in, he located Arthur and the approximate location of his lips, then leaned in to give him a wet one.

Arthur rose with a gasp. Merlin slumped into the bed and rolled on his back as he himself tried to gulp enough air into his lungs to feel like a living human being again. Arthur then had the nerve, at this time, to start saying, “ _Mer_ lin, can you be _any_ less gentle? I feel as though a stone was thrown in my face, which, considering how dense you are—” He paused. Then, more delicately: “Why are you half-naked and panting at the foot of my bed?”

“God, I wasn’t—” he protested at the implication, but nope, that sentence wasn’t coming out with the amount of air he currently had. “I— I overslept, alright? God— I, I don’t have any—any designs on you.”

“No, you are too much of a simpleton to have designs on anything,” Arthur agreed. “I suppose Gaius’ solution worked, then. Which reminds me—” Merlin looked at him. Arthur made an exaggerated show of wiping his lips with his sleeves.

“I’ll have you know that kissing you wasn’t much of a reward either!” Merlin said hotly. “For one, your breath stinks.”

Which was a lie. Or at least, Merlin did not hover long enough around Arthur to know whether it was a lie. It was a logical deduction, though, Merlin justified to himself. Princes drank and ate more richly than the average peasant. Arthur’s breath should be rank.

Arthur huffed a small breath into his palm and sniffed it. “It does not,” he said, though he sounded unsure.

“Like a goat’s behind,” Merlin promised.

Arthur shoved a pillow in Merlin’s face and ordered Merlin to dress him.

The next day, Merlin arrived in Arthur’s chambers early. When the time came, he leaned down and caught a whiff of mint. Laughing a little guiltily to himself, Merlin closed the distance to give his prince a little peck on the lips.

 

 

They did not talk about it. At least, Merlin did not talk about it. Arthur would spend the first few minutes of the day whining, as in “If it’s your intention to break my nose in my sleep, Merlin, you weren’t far off the mark” or “You slobber like a dog, Merlin. A dirty, shaggy sheepdog.” In retrospect, these little quips of Arthur’s were, besides shameful _lies_ , a way to secularize the gesture.

For a while, it worked. Nothing between them changed, except that Merlin now had a detailed rundown of Arthur’s evening schedules in case Arthur forgot the time and fell asleep near a stairway or balcony. Before such a system, there was a night when a lord had detained Merlin on the far side of the castle to search for his pearls. When Merlin rushed frantically into the castle a good time after the last bells had gone silent, one of the king’s attendants intercepted him. A deeply annoyed King Uther waited by a table overflowing with maps. Arthur had slumped against a wooden chair, fast asleep.

Merlin enlisted Gwen’s help enough that he and Arthur agreed to tell her about his “condition,” both trusting her to not sell the secret to a neighboring kingdom. Lady Morgana was also informed so she would make allowances for Gwen’s absences near midnight. True to their word, they stayed silent on the affair, though Morgana would give them a knowing smirk whenever Arthur excused himself hastily during particularly festive banquets.

Nothing was changing, or so Merlin liked to tell himself. He repeated those words silently in those rare mornings when, after he lifted his head, Arthur would blinked slowly up at him and smile, as soft and sweet as a lily in fresh bloom. A moment of silence and stillness would unfurl between them, lasting seconds or minutes—Merlin could never tell, so caught in that placid violence stirring in his chest. Then Arthur the Prat would always return, when the last trace of drowsiness evaporated with the morning mist, and his expression grew shuttered, his eyes alert. Merlin would soon find himself bemoaning his hard life as he set out to deal with the mountain load of chores Arthur would have assigned.

Gaius said the curse would lose hold on Arthur within a month’s time, judging by the amount Arthur had drunk from the goblet. At Arthur’s reluctant orders, Merlin performed his least favorite duty of the day twice—once half an hour before dawn, once at the regular time. As the month passed by, Arthur still failed to rise earlier, but nor did he call off the first daily kiss, which would allow Merlin a little extra sleep. Merlin complained about this endlessly, though only when Arthur was within earshot. He wished he could honestly complain to himself, but it was hard to do so when he was able to stay in Arthur’s room, watch sky lighten, listen as the castle slowly came to life, and hear Arthur’s deep, rhythmic breaths that indicated the presence of a strong life.

 

 

A creature was haunting Camelot’s western territories, stealing away livestock, terrorizing the people. Uther listened to the messenger’s account carefully and then called Arthur to another room, dismissing the court. Later that night in Arthur’s chambers, Merlin was told to pack a week’s worth of clothing and supplies.

With eight of Camelot’s best knights, they set out against the direction of the rising sun, already fierce in the chilly morning air. The journey itself was merry: there was no moment of boredom when traveling with those boisterous knights. By day they traded stories of their own noble exploits, and by night they traded stories of their other, raunchier adventures. Merlin was sure most of the talk was as substantial as castles in the sky, but he enjoyed listening to them all the same.

Merlin and Arthur’s daily ritual continued, though Merlin made sure now to check for other knights beforehand. One of the men had entered on the first day moments after Merlin’s lips met Arthur’s, and Merlin had straightened to blurt out something about Arthur’s sore throat, then kicked Arthur’s bedding, prompting the prince to cough and whisper hoarsely. The malady healed by the next morning, magically.

The region that they were headed was close, geographically, to Caerleon. There had long been rumors that the foreign bandits—and, more sinisterly, Caerleon soldiers—were becoming all too familiar with this part of Camelot’s territory. Part of Arthur’s unofficial mission was to gauge the locals’ loyalties and fear, then report back to Uther. All this Arthur confided to Merlin as he lied on bed to wait for midnight.

“Tomorrow, we enter town,” he said. “I want to get as many hours in the daylight as possible to search for the beast before evening arrives—then we return. I cannot risk becoming a burden to my men with this curse.” He let out a sigh. “Are the days shortening? Because I can swear, it’s as though I’m getting more tired every day.”

“No, the days should be getting longer. The solstice passed three weeks ago.” Summer was shutting up shop, Merlin thought, and autumn closing in. He wondered how the harvest in Ealdor would be like, if he would be able to visit this year. The thought brought him a smile.

“Hey, Arthur—” he began without thinking and clamped his mouth shut, mortified, because his next words were going to be _Will you consider visiting Ealdor this year? The people love you._

Merlin was saved from finishing the rest of his sentence by Arthur’s distinctive royal snore. Merlin looked at him for a few seconds. Then, he opened his palm. A small bud of light curled at its center. Outside, another raucous round of laughter rose up among the knights. Merlin looked at its winking glow a few seconds more—thought about Will, thought about that damn dragon’s cryptic words, thought about Arthur—then clenched his fist.

 

 

The villagers, seeing the procession of knights and prince, were more than eager to free up space in individual homes to accommodate them. That itself proved much of the rumors of shifted allegiances to be unfounded, and indeed, none of the people’s behavior for the rest of their first week indicated anything but loyalty to Camelot and pleasure at their arrival. The families of the two victims came to thank Arthur especially, and Merlin’s heart seized in his chest when he saw how the children clung to their mothers, their fathers conspicuously absent.

For the first half of their day there, Arthur and the knights listened to often contradictory accounts of the beast from the farmers and herdsmen, then set aside a few hours to hunt the beast.

They covered the innermost ring of the forest that surrounded the town: nothing. Perhaps frightened away by the commotion, the beast did not directly attack the village that day. The second and third days’ searches, deeper in the forest, did not yield the creature either. They did track down deep scratch marks against the bark and some silvery hair that one of the knights identified as belonging to a goat, which fitted some’s description of the beast. On the other side of the village, however, they found paw prints the size of Arthur’s head—which was to say, quite large. With the giant paw prints, there was also a sharp, fetid smell, like human body odor, but earthlier and stickier.

Merlin studied Gaius’ bestiary through the night. Still he had no concrete solution for Arthur in the morning.

“Nothing matches up,” Merlin said as Arthur blearily sipped a pot of strong tea, brewed by one of the locals. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I searched all night, but... Look, unless this creature is a shapeshifter, in which case we have a lot more to worry about, there’s nothing in here that talks about a creature with—claws and hooves that sometimes magic into paws—and of course there is that _foul_ scent too, but _those_ usually deal with swamp monsters.”

“The lads are getting impatient,” Arthur noted. “It’s our fourth day here and it’ll take at least another four days to return. Yet we’ve still not found the beast.”

“We also don’t know _what_ we’re dealing with! What if it’s a creature of the Old Religion, like the Questing Beast? The best theory I have right now that doesn’t involve demonic forces at work is a rabid unicorn that doesn’t like to bathe.”

“And who also has a penchant for bear slippers too, I suppose?” Arthur mocked. “Oh, stop worrying. The beast is a living creature, and if it’s living it can be killed. Go get my sword and armor. The other men and I will protect your pretty little head, you big girl.”

As fate would have it, they did find the beast that day. Merlin recognized it at once, even through layers of branches and foliage: its swiveling horns, its heavy skyward-pointing tusks, and its swishing elephant’s tail. A yale.

It was put down quickly. As soon as Arthur gave the order of pursuit, the yale charged at them, slobbering, half-mad. Arthur landed the killing blow within the minute. As the knights circled around the creature, Merlin saw old, scabbed-over wounds crisscrossing the yale’s back and flank. Its sagging skin barely concealed the outlines of protruding ribs. Half of its gray fur was gone, and patches of unhealthy yellow had edged into bald spots. Dried blood cloaked the tip of its horns.

“Captured by the circus. Or one of those caravans,” one of the knights said, voicing what everyone was thinking.

“From Caerleon,” Merlin said to Arthur, leveling him a look. Few people dared to bring exotic creatures into Camelot for fear of Uther’s laws, after all. Merlin would bet that this was how the rumors of Caerleon soldiers came about.

Arthur assigned two of the knights to bring the tiger-sized carcass back for the villagers to examine as proof before burning, as well as to confirm the veracity of Merlin’s speculation. The rest of the group doubled off to search for corpses of any sort, to console the grieving families.

Finding marks of the yale was easy now that they were in the approximate location of its dwelling place, even though the earth and sky were collapsing into twilight. Arthur and Merlin followed hoof prints and horn scratch marks that led to a frenzied twist of tracks. Merlin felt a sudden surge of pity for the creature.

“Yales are supposed to be herbivorous, you know,” Merlin said. “For it to attack humans and livestock—how hungry must it be? How delirious? Perhaps it thought they were its owners, with the whips.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, “but on the bright side, it’s likelier that the bodies of the men will be found intact.”

“I suppose—”

“What is that sound?”

Merlin paused, blinked. “What sound—?”

Arthur brought a trembling finger to his lips, and Merlin suddenly realized: how pale Arthur was, almost gray, even as the last flush of sunlight held everything in the forest in a delicate pink hue.

“Arthur, are you sure you are not—?”

“Look out!”

Which, Merlin thought in the split of a second that followed, had to be the least helpful phrase in any language, ever. But that was fine, because Arthur was tackling him to the ground anyway, and where he stood a huge, hairy paw smacked the dirt. The ground shuddered. Merlin swore he could see the outline of his soul around the resulting cloud of smoke.

A rabid beast crouched before them—eyes screaming red; mouth foaming; and the sharp, earthy scent that choked Merlin as he inhaled. It was—a weasel, he thought. A giant, slimy, barn-sized weasel that could use a year’s worth of soaking in the hot springs.

Arthur was dragging him back, cursing as he did, as the creature slowly advanced, fluids glistening from his tail into a small stream. Merlin came to his senses and magicked a few trees to fall in front of the monster of a weasel—a pastinaca, Merlin suddenly recognized. As it wailed, a hoarse screech more fitted for a bird than a mammal, Merlin pumped magic into his and Arthur’s arms and legs and pushed Arthur into a run. This was working for a great five minutes or so until Arthur—of course—drew his sword and spun on his heels.

Merlin backpedaled. “Don’t stop—!”

“Get away from here, you idiot!” he shouted. The pastinaca, perhaps recognizing the prickly steel stick in Arthur’s hands, slowed into a crawl, then a crouch. “It’ll pounce any moment now.”

Now that he was actively thinking about it, now that he had no choice but to _see_ Arthur’s fatigue pressing him down with the weight of skies, Merlin could not miss it. Arthur’s tendons pulsed as they strained for and lost the strength to keep standing. His fighting form was unbalanced, almost slouched, his sword seemingly free of its master and drawing nonsensical shapes in the air. He swayed like a dandelion in a breeze while the feral beast loomed high overhead.

The pastinaca pounced for Arthur. Arthur’s sword pinned both of the claws above his head, but he was trembling violently. A tail was swinging for Arthur, but Merlin froze it with his magic, then levitated sticks and stones from the forest floor and swung them at the beast.

The pastinaca reared back with a fierce cry. Arthur, recovering from a moment’s confusion, jumped into the air and stabbed the animal in its chest. On the ground, it gave a shrill screech that sent shivers through Merlin’s bones—then stilled.

Arthur, using his sword as a walking stick, staggered away from the beast. Merlin immediately ran over and lifted Arthur by the armpits, ignoring the way the chainmail dug into Merlin’s arms.

“Sire,” Merlin said.

“Servants are good for some things after all,” said Arthur, even as Merlin felt him trying to shift his weight away. Merlin held onto him more tightly. Arthur’s voice was dropping into a sleepy murmur. “Merlin, I don’t think the tea here is as strong as Camelot’s.”

“Sire—”

“The curse is getting stronger, I know,” Arthur said. “Which, I think, must be testament to—to your abilities on... the lips...”

“Hey—” Merlin protested weakly.

“Yet,” Arthur’s words were whispers now, “I cannot imagine another person... another person who would be more qualified... to break the spell—”

The pastinaca, which had revived noiselessly, struck its claw across Arthur’s back. Both of them skittered to the side. The skin on Merlin’s arm tore open painfully.

Arthur staggered upright and drew his sword. But the monster, wounded, did not take note and instead barreled straight into Arthur. It flinched back with another electrified cry when it met Arthur’s sword. But Arthur had been forced to the ground. He laid there in front of Merlin, his arm trembling as he pushed his blade against the pastinaca’s chest. Merlin kneeled by his side, hovering his arms over in the attempt to infuse strength into his muscles, unsuccessfully. As though he was striking a wall with pebbles—his magic was deflected at once.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Arthur said. His other hand reached tremblingly for Merlin. “G-go—”

Merlin huffed out an exasperated breath. “Of course I can’t.” He bent his head to avoid the prince’s eyes. “I’m sorry for what you’re about to witness. But if we both make it out alive, I won’t be.”

“What—”

Merlin spun around and hurled a ball of blue fire into the pastinaca, stopping its charge. Its fur singed briefly before it was again covered in slime.

He felt the sharp grooves of Arthur’s gauntlet around the skin of his ankles. Merlin ignored it—he had to. The pastinaca stomped down again, and Merlin stilled its foot with his magic and delivered another ball of fire. The beast snarled, and a curtain of slime again concealed the wound.

This continued for a dozen more rounds, with the pastinaca slowly gaining ground after each jolt of fire. Then the sword in Merlin’s peripheral vision twitched. The worst thoughts shot through his mind— _Arthur is going to do it he will kill me it will hurt it will hurt so much I can’t protect him I’m so sorry I wish things were different_ —and the next fire glanced off the side of the pastinaca’s skull. It roared with pain, but unlike before, it did not spring back.

Merlin did not have the time to summon up another fireball—it was too late—the pastinaca was above them, blocking out all light—

But there was Arthur, thrusting his sword into the still-singed piece of skin to the side of the pastinaca’s head. The tip protruded, bloody, on the other side of the skull for a brief second before it withdrew. The pastinaca swayed then fell backward into the bed of trees.

Merlin was still for a long minute, fearful of making the same mistake as before. But the pastinaca did not move again. When the sense of danger melted away with the tension in his limbs, he turned to Arthur, only to find the prince similarly crumpled on the ground, his face deathly pale. An open wound cut across his chest like a crimson sash.

 

 

Merlin had no physical strength left to carry Arthur, and he had no mental strength to keep up any pretenses. He would fly to the village if he could, summon a dragon to perch on its back, teleport even though Gaius had said it was impossible—but he couldn’t, so he made do with levitating Arthur by his side and running with magicked speed. He burst into the center of the village like that, in full view of its inhabitants and Arthur’s knights, demanding a healer.

The last time magic could be so flagrantly displayed must have been a generation ago, and the villagers and knights alike gaped at Merlin, hoes and swords and buckets comically frozen in action. Perhaps Merlin could have held Arthur in his arms before entering public view, but the wound seemed to gape wider and redder every time Merlin dared to look from Arthur’s face, and he did not trust himself to jostle even more the delicate knit of bones and flesh that bound up a human soul.

“Please—anyone,” he gasped out. “The prince is in mortal danger, and I cannot—”

Medical magic, more than even magic made for killing, disturbed the cogs and turns of mortality—for death was easy, but life, which was creation, was not meant for adjudication by mortals. It was why Nimueh’s actions ultimately caused so much grief and destruction. Merlin was warned away from the most powerful healing spells—spells that could grow an old woman a new kidney, spells that weaved back limbs, spells that glazed the skin with permanent youth—and only allowed to learn the simplest ones for “foundational understanding.” Merlin would give everything to have one of those books in his hands right now.

One of the men—the same gangly, orange-haired knight who was present for Arthur’s “sore throat”—drew his blade.

“Sorcery,” he spat. “Treachery.”

“By the gods—” Merlin all but snarled.

Then a woman with streaks of white along her tightly tied back hair strode through the heaps of knights blocking the way to the village entrance.

“I am a healer,” she spoke into the silence. “What is the issue here?”

Merlin knelt in front of her.

“The prince has been gored by a beast. A pastinaca. I am a student of the magical arts, but I do not know of any healing spells.” He looked up. His cheeks were scarred and hot from the tears carving down his skin. “Please help him.”

“Mortal medicine cannot save him,” the woman said gently.

Merlin choked back a sob. “Please—”

“But maybe with the help of magic, it can,” she said. She dropped a basket to the ground. To the onlookers, she shouted, “Lilian, set up the clinic!”

“Yes ma’am.” A girl darted away from the corner of Merlin’s field of vision.

“Madam, forgive me,” another knight interrupted. “But this man is a traitor to the crown. He is in possession of magic—”

“This servant of his has shown nothing but devotion to your prince since they arrived in my village,” the woman said, as she pulled out salves and cloth from the basket and began examining Arthur’s wounds with economic movements.

“He is a _sorceror_ —”

The healer stood up.

“At this run of events,” she said, “if you choose to heal him without the help of magic, his death is a certainty, and Prince Arthur will join the kings of the past before dawn. If this boy is the dangerous sorcerer you accuse him of, he would already have attacked us or escaped. If you want to pass judgment on him, then, there is no rush. But you can wait till the heavens send their verdict on your prince first before you execute his servant for negligence.”

Merlin wasn’t the greatest fan of this logic, but it soothed Arthur’s knights. The orange-haired knight stepped forward.

“We will monitor the healing progress one by one. Then, if we need to report back to the king with news of—” He swallowed. “If we need to report back to the king, we will.”

“I have no objection,” the woman replied coolly. “Now let us pass.”

 

 

The work to patch up Arthur’s wounds took all night. The woman, whose name was Ebba, spoke only to direct Merlin to fetch things or perform tasks he thought were impossible—like stopping the blood flow in Arthur’s limbs for four hours—until he found he could do it. All eight knights had rotated in and out of Ebba’s clinic by the time the first roosters called their throaty songs to the rising sun. Not long after, Ebba tied together the last suture, and the procedure was declared over.

“The gods will guide his path now,” Ebba told the knight in charge. It was the orange-haired knight again. Merlin recalled another man referring to him as Sir Irwin over the course of the night.

Sir Irwin dipped his head. “So they will.” Then his eyes found Merlin.

Merlin supposed he should try to flee. But weighed down by exhaustion and worry for Arthur, he found that he had no will to.

But then Sir Irwin’s gaze dropped, and he stalked away. No knight followed him in.

By the water barrel, where Ebba was soaking in the last of the stained cloth, she told Merlin, “You should rest, my child.”

“Yes,” he said, but he didn’t leave.

While Ebba’s back was toward him, Merlin pressed his lips against Arthur’s. Arthur’s lips had the faint metallic tinge of blood. Arthur might have twitched at the kiss, but he did not wake. Merlin straightened and smoothed back Arthur’s hair.

Ebba stood and walked over to them with a fresh towel. When she saw Merlin, still by Arthur’s side, she smiled sadly at him. It was the first time she displayed any emotion other than exasperation and steel-cold determination.

“Your prince felled the dreadful beast, didn’t he?” Ebba asked, rolled the towel over Arthur’s forehead.

“Beasts,” Merlin corrected absentmindedly. “There were two.” He blinked and looked up. “And he did. He was very brave.”

“I’m sure,” Ebba said. She snuffed out the candle by Arthur’s bed, letting daylight stream through, and retired to a chair. For some moments she was silent. Then she turned to Merlin and said, “Lilian’s mother was trampled by the beast while she was gathering chicory in the northern forests. She has been bedridden since.”

“Lilian’s mother?” Merlin repeated.

“Lilian’s mother and I manage this clinic,” Ebba said. “We—the three of us—live in the floor above. This is our house. She is sleeping right now, still recuperating.”

“Is Lilian’s mother your friend?” Merlin asked.

“You can say that,” Ebba replied judiciously.

Then Merlin suddenly understood. “Is Lilian—is Lilian also your daughter?”

Ebba smiled. “Not by blood. But I consider her as such, and she sees me as her mother. And that’s enough, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Merlin breathed.

 

 

Arthur woke briefly at noon and called out for Merlin, only to drift off by the time Merlin reached his side.

At mid-afternoon, Merlin finally succumbed to sleep, and he wasn’t there when Arthur woke the second time. According to Ebba later, Arthur addressed the knights and expressed wishes to return to Camelot as soon as possible. Half of the knights were sent back, to relay the tale to King Uther and his court. The other half were to accompany Arthur out the village in three days.

Some of the knights wanted to send Merlin back with the first crew, but others protested. One member of the latter group was, apparently, Sir Irwin. Arthur had said nothing on this subject.

Merlin rose to an indigo sky the next day and entered Ebba’s clinic to find Arthur bandaged and sleep. He wasn’t nearly well enough to travel in three days—two days, now—and Merlin didn’t know what the stubborn prat was thinking. At the break of dawn, Merlin kissed Arthur again.

Arthur woke.

“Good morning,” Merlin said hoarsely.

Arthur’s eyes roved over Merlin’s face. His expression did not change. Merlin felt something in him break.

“Tell me,” Arthur said, “how good are you at this magic business? As good as you are at sweeping my chambers?”

The ache in Merlin’s heart found its way into a lump at his throat, and in its place was a quiet, spreading happiness.

“I’ve been told I’m one of the best in the land,” he told Arthur.

“That really doesn’t mean anything, Merlin,” Arthur told him, a shadow of a smile in place. “For all I know, most sorcerers are just incompetent, and my father has just been incredibly unlucky in the people who want to kill him.”

“A dragon told me I was placed by your side,” Merlin said, “because you will be the greatest king that Albion will ever know.”

Arthur scoffed at that, but weakly still. “ ‘King.’ Let me live out these next two days first, won’t you?”

Arthur did live out the next two days, and by the end of it Merlin bid a sad farewell to Ebba, Lilian, and even Lilian’s bedridden mother. The villagers were grateful for their work in slaying the two beasts, and after seeing the prince’s injuries, they were more loyal to Arthur than ever. It was truly a successful mission, if one ignored the prince at his deathbed.

The journey back took twice as long as the journey from Camelot even with Merlin casting protective spells over Arthur that minimized his chances of injury on horseback. Their pace made the men antsy. The leftover knights were those in Sir Irwin’s camp, which meant they trusted Merlin to take care of Arthur, even if they treated Merlin’s magic like a serpent—tamed for now, but likely to strike again. They held Merlin at a wary distance.

But Arthur didn’t.

Arthur commanded that Merlin be the one to watch over him on the road by day, in his tent by night. He was still unaccustomed to magic. When Merlin offered to conjure a seat back for Arthur’s saddle—and magicked, so it would never slip off the horse—Arthur flinched, and Merlin had understood. Dogma like that of Uther’s teachings weren’t erased overnight. Merlin expected this.

But that night, Arthur asked Merlin to show him what magic could do—“Entertain me, Merlin,” Arthur had drawled from his bed, though his eyes were alert and his body tense. So Merlin considered the request, then conjured a wiry circlet of flames. It twisted in the dim light into a tiny dragon bellowing fire, then stretched into a wicked blade before it evaporated into smoke after a blink of the eye.

Merlin watched Arthur watch the magic. There was tension there, but it softened into wonder soon enough, and even regret when the flames blew themselves out.

“Magic’s not all bad,” Merlin said. “It’s—pretty, a lot of time. And I’ve saved you and King Uther countless instances with magic.”

“You did?”

“Loads,” Merlin told him. “I’d brag more—and I will, when this whole mess is over—but your current condition with the, um, sleep was also my doing, really.”

When Arthur looked at him in alarm, Merlin quickly corrected, “I was wrestling half of a playing company behind Uther’s entire court, plus a couple of jesters and men in stilts. I missed it when the playwright switched your goblet with his.” Merlin managed a half-smile. “I should’ve known the clowns were just distractions, really. Of course that man was the mastermind behind the entire thing.”

Arthur’s eyes remained wide-eyed until he looked away and sighed. The sigh had the same exasperation, and the same fondness slipped in, as Arthur’s other sighs. And that was the first time Merlin started thinking things would be able to return to normal after this.

“I cannot for the life of me believe—” Arthur laughed. “A powerful wizard. You.”

“Me,” Merlin agreed happily.

Arthur’s body had rested back in those languid lines atop the covers, and he looked up at Merlin beneath his eyelashes, unguarded now like before. Merlin’s mind abruptly went to the same horrible, filthy place it always wandered to when Merlin wasn’t busy worrying about Arthur’s safety, or when Merlin felt too familiar with him. He shook the thoughts away.

“You’re extraordinary, Merlin,” Arthur muttered. “Truly.”

It should’ve been framed as an insult, but it seemed that Arthur couldn’t muster up his usual wryness right then. Merlin couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he conjured a few more tiny, yawning dragons and talked about the good magic could do for the kingdom and its people. Later that night, he pledged his loyalty to Arthur again—this time, as a vassal over the realms of sorcery, and a peer. Arthur accepted his pledge.

 

 

It was a rainy day when they returned to Camelot, and Merlin was arrested as soon as he crossed the gates.

“The king himself has ordered the capture of this wicked sorcerer!” cried the guard who locked Merlin’s arms behind his back and forced him to his knees. The commotion broke open a circle in the crowd of onlookers that had waited for Arthur’s return.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted from his horse. The knights split evenly between steadying Arthur and drawing their swords against the king’s guard.

Merlin could feel the grip around his waist loosen—not enough to break through with mortal strength, but enough to indicate the man’s surprise. Merlin didn’t know what edict the king had passed down, but it didn’t tell them to watch for rebellion on the prince’s part.

Rebellion. It would be what these guards see Arthur’s behavior now.

Arthur had slumped ungracefully off his horse now in his struggle to get to Merlin. Merlin shook his head.

“No, please, sire,” Merlin said, looking up at Arthur’s grief-stricken face. “Don’t interfere. I’ll take care of myself.” Merlin smiled. “You can endure a couple of kisses from Morgana or Gwen for a few days, can’t you?”

“Merlin—”

The kings’ guards took this moment to pull Merlin away from Arthur’s knights. “Tell His Majesty Prince Arthur was bewitched!” Merlin’s captor hissed, even as Merlin heard Arthur’s anguished shouts from a distance. “Tell him the suspicions of Prince Arthur’s knights were correct—the poison is in too deep.”

 

 

The days that Merlin spent in the dungeon were days he would rather not revisit.

He could’ve escaped easily, because he had quickly switched out the cold iron cuffs for regular steel. But he didn’t escape. To leave now would be to admit to crimes under unjust laws, fanning the castle’s fear of sorcery.

But sometimes he wished he did, especially when the guards dragged him out for little “chats” down the hall. He didn’t know healing spells, and he couldn’t lessen his own pain.

Once, he thought he heard Gwen’s and Morgana’s voices calling for him through the drafty walls. They never appeared. Merlin was glad for that. He hoped they didn’t come, to not place themselves in danger for him.

There were others, though, who did swing by his cell. People he had never laid eyes on before, in baggy robes, smelling of herbs and incense. Healers. They whispered among each other:

“This is the one?”

“Yes, he is. The servant.”

“No. The _wizard_.”

 

 

It took only a week before the guards dragged him outside the dungeons. Merlin thought it would take longer; he thought Uther would want him to wither within the cells before dragging him out to execution. It would befit the whispers Merlin heard among the dungeon guards while they shot him furtive glances:

Sorcerer. Liar. Enchantress. Traitor. Devil.

Really, they gave him too much credit.

He thought maybe Arthur had convinced his father to give Merlin a swift execution. Merlin was grateful for that, but it was also unfortunate. After his escape from Camelot, it would be difficult to return to Arthur’s side, difficult to serve him without raising suspicion.

But instead of leading him to the chopping block, the guards pushed him roughly up the winding stairwell that led from the dungeons to the castle courtyard. Everyone stopped and stared when they passed by, from knights to the servants whom Merlin had joked around with and befriended these past years. Maybe some of them were mourning, but Merlin couldn’t tell from the brief glimpses he caught of them. They wouldn’t be permitted to in public, anyway.

From there Merlin was pressed through the heavy wooden doors that led to the main hallway, then into Uther’s court.

It was emptied, which Merlin didn’t understand. By the position of the sun, this was the time for supplicants—there should be a line of common folks winding all the way to the outer walls. But the throne room was empty besides a small gathering of people at the very end.

The guards pushed Merlin forward, and Merlin staggered onto the red and gold carpet.

Uther held himself like a statue on his throne. As mask of stony hatred pulled back his features, and his eyes followed Merlin without blinking. Morgana waited below the dais, Gwen by her side. They retained regal postures when Merlin was shoved through the door, but their faces betrayed worry once they took in Merlin’s appearance. Gaius stood on the other side, looking as though he was stopping himself from weeping.

And Arthur—

Arthur was stretched across a table gilded with gold. Beneath his head was a pillow that looked more embroidery than feathers. His fingers interlocked stiffly over his sword, which pressed flat over his chest, the tip of it trailing past his stomach. Arthur looked like a young knight of the legends, martyred for his country. He looked laid out for his coffin.

When Merlin saw him, he cried out and stumbled forward.

“Keep— _back_ ,” Uther said, tremblingly.

Merlin heard the guards rush to him, but they did not touch him when he knelt on the floor by Arthur’s side.

Arthur was still breathing. Merlin thanked the gods.

“What happened to him?” Merlin demanded. Then, at the flash of rage that crossed Uther’s face, hastily added, “Your Majesty.”

This soothed him none at all. Uther stood and looked ready to draw his own sword. “You _dare_ ask me—”

“You must not,” Morgana rushed in front of the throne to say. “Merlin has to—”

“Silence,” Uther roared, and every conscious person in the room save for Morgana flinched. For her part, Morgana pressed her lips into a thin, bloodless line. “I know what must be done. But you are in no place to defend this _deceit_.”

Morgana and Gwen retreated to where they had stood, but Morgana did not break eye contact with Uther, and Gwen’s gaze was focused on Merlin, complicated emotions warring in her features.

Uther’s sudden flood of rage seemed to disorient himself. He waved his hand in Gaius’ general direction, but when he spoke again, his voice was much quieter.

“Explain it to the boy,” he said to Gaius, as he lifted himself gingerly off the throne. “Explain what he must do.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Gaius said obediently.

Uther looked lost for a second, perhaps realizing he wasn’t as in control of the room as he had thought. He repeated, “Explain it to him.” And Gaius replied, patient, “Of course.” Then, to Merlin’s surprise, Uther stormed out of the room without looking back. The man who guarded the exit left with him.

Morgana surveyed Merlin and Gaius. She held herself like a queen, Merlin thought, though she would never be one. She would never marry Arthur, who was one of the only men she could tolerate in her life, which meant she would never consent to playing wife and mother for another man, even a king. Gwen leaned forward to whisper something in her lady’s ear, and Morgana seemed to falter for a moment. Then her attention was on Merlin.

“You have magic, Merlin?” Morgana finally asked.

“Yes, m’lady.”

“I see,” she said, swallowing. “I will do my best to make amends on Uther’s behalf, after this. And whatever happens to you, we will fix it.” After a quick glance toward Gwen, she smiled at Merlin. “Take care of Arthur, won’t you?”

When Merlin nodded mutely, she and Gwen too swept out of the room, leaving only him, the guards, Gaius, and the sleeping prince.

“Gaius,” Merlin said, “tell me please. What happened to Arthur?”

When Gaius turned to Merlin, he knew it was taking all Gaius had not to rush over and check his wounds. Gaius was not the king’s ward, or his son, so all he did was reply, “The prince has not awaken in seven days.”

Merlin looked at him. “But one of you must have—”

“Everyone in the room before had tried.”

“It didn’t work?” Merlin croaked.

“No,” said Gaius, with a heaviness that aged him.

“But why?” Merlin asked, drawing himself up. “It never had to be me. I was just convenient—”

“As it turned out, it wasn’t the case. You were not just convenient; you were the only one of us who could have awaken him.” Gaius finally approached him, placing gentle hands over the tattered fabric at Merlin’s shoulder. The sorrow in Gaius eyes weighed on Merlin.

“Gaius—”

The old man looked away. “You see, long ago, His Majesty King Uther was slipped a very similar poison. That’s how I recognized Arthur’s condition that day and was able to administer the cure so quickly. Unfortunately, what worked with the king didn’t work with Arthur.” Gaius circled Arthur’s unconscious body. “The person who administered King Uther’s cure was Her Late Majesty Ygraine. They were in love. That is how they were able to clear out the poison in the span of weeks.” He returned to Merlin’s side and gave him a significant look. “True Love’s kiss. A powerful, ancient spell.”

Merlin looked at Arthur’s sleeping form. One could seldom detect a breath.

“But for Arthur, the magic seeps deeper into his system,” Gaius said.

“Why?” Merlin asked, afraid of the answer—afraid of what he might have done to Arthur all this time unknowingly.

“Because his body is poisoned by unrequited love.”

Merlin’s throat dried up. “Unrequited—?”

“Arthur’s,” Gaius said gently. “For you.”

Merlin laughed. Of all things— “What?”

“Unrequited love,” Gaius said again. “It is a powerful spell all the same, with the same fervor behind true love, but without the reassurance and strength of a partner. Desperate, anguished—short-lived.”

“It can’t be,” Merlin said, incredulous. The idea of it was ridiculous. Who had ever heard of a prince who pined after his servant, outside a village farce?

Gaius gave him the same wise, withdrawn smile Ebba had given him, when she had seen him with Arthur.

Merlin broke eye contact. “I— What must I do?”

“You must—” And here was where Gaius hesitated.

“What is it?”

With one careful look at the guards behind him, Gaius continued, “You must take Arthur’s curse within yourself.”

“I’ll do it,” Merlin said immediately. “I’ll do it. How can I take Arthur’s curse within me?”

Gaius’ face seemed to crumble. “My boy, this can kill you. It already is killing Arthur, and that is with—well. We don’t know what will happen once you let yourself be the vessel of the curse. What if you sink into the same slumber? We don’t have a true love’s kiss to grant you.”

“I’m Emrys,” Merlin said, as a promise. “I am magic. It cannot ultimately hurt me.”

He didn’t know if what he said was true. Magic had certainly hurt him plenty before this. But he was desperate for Gaius to tell him how to save Arthur before King Uther changed his mind and returned with orders to drag Merlin out for public execution. The words flowed out of his tongue, and it felt true, and maybe that was enough to make it true.

Merlin shook Gaius slightly by the shoulders. “ _Please_.”

Gaius let out a long, thin breath. “It is simple. Your exchanges with Arthur over the past months must have opened a direct channel into the infestation in his blood. All you need to do, then, is command the curse and offer yourself as a vessel.”

Merlin closed his eyes.

“You don’t have to do it,” Gaius said suddenly, gripping Merlin’s wrist, and the guards behind Merlin stirred. “My boy, you don’t have to do this. You can—”

“No,” Merlin stopped him, before the guards had any more reason to advance. He gently pulled himself out of Gaius’ iron-like hold. “I will. But you don’t have to worry.” He smiled. “Trust me. You have taught me well.”

Gaius said nothing to that.

Merlin turned away from Gaius completely to face Arthur. “Command it, you said? That’s all I must do?”

“Yes.”

Merlin nodded.

The commands came to him at once, as easy as tipping over the edge of a cliff. As soon as he laid his palm across Arthur’s cheek, he could feel it, the channel that Gaius had told him about. He curled the key of it in his tongue, then let them go:

“ _Ic i ágiilde_.”

The curse was a physical thing, spirals of sickly beige and wine-red that danced beneath Arthur’s skin and then wound its way up Merlin’s arm. As soon as it touched his skin, strength seeped out of his muscles and drew him forward, as though with this contact to Arthur’s skin alone Merlin had engaged himself in a tug-of-war that he was now losing. The curse dove past his shoulders and spread to the rest of his body, filling into his extremities—a parasite. He couldn’t help but cry out at the intrusion of it, the wrongness in his limbs. When Gaius moved by his side, he held his arm out.

“I’m fine,” Merlin grunted.

But he wasn’t. The curse had located his heart, and it coiled around it—constricting it. The curse was leaden in his chest, hanging like an anvil through his sternum. Now Merlin felt slumber nibbling at the corners of his vision, threatening to swallow his entire consciousness. He collapsed to the ground. He fought against the lumbering fatigue, pulled air in and out of his lungs, and it was like fighting the pastinaca again, really, and just as tiring too—

Arthur jostled beneath him.

“Merlin?” he heard Arthur’s voice call. Merlin looked up and saw his prince pushing himself upright. “Merlin, talk to me. What happened?”

Gaius had it all wrong, Merlin thought. Merlin didn’t know what led Gaius to the conclusion that the unrequited lover of the two was Arthur. All that told Merlin was that he had poisoned Arthur all these months with his own longing, and that made him want to fall into an impregnable sleep himself—turn into a tree, maybe; lock himself in a cave—or impale himself on Arthur’s sword.

Before all of that, though, he looked up at Arthur, his strong features twisted in panic. Merlin cuffed him by the neck and pulled him down.

“No matter what you think,” Merlin said, slurring, “I do love you.”

And with that, he thought he could let himself drown, and fall, and fall. But as his fingers slipped from Arthur’s neck, Arthur grabbed his hand and pressed it to his chest. It was impossible under all of the layers of tunics, but Merlin thought he could feel Arthur’s heart beat.

“No,” was all Arthur said, “you can’t go like this. Not after what you just said. God, I love you too. I love you. Merlin, no—”

Then he kissed Merlin.

Then the strangest thing happened.

It was as though Arthur had cut away the fishing-lines that had bound up the Merlin’s body and cut him bloody, and unfolding from within was the slow dissolving of that heaviness—not just the one Merlin had inherited from Arthur, but his own as well, the poison that had slipped into the crevices of their mind like sand, quite separate from the poison in that goblet all those months ago. Now in its place was a gradual lightness that breathed and ballooned until Merlin thought he could float from the dissolving curse beneath his skin. This felt right in a way he never had expected, like dipping into a lake on a hot summer day, or lying by the fire in a snowy night.

“I love you,” Arthur was whispering.

“Alright,” was all Merlin could say, as the details of the world returned to him, spot by spot. “Alright. That’s fine by me.”

And before Arthur could add anything else, Merlin kissed him again. It should feel strange, when he had done it so many times already and Gaius was standing _right there_. But then Arthur cupped the back of his head and leaned in—for the first time—Merlin couldn’t care.

 

✷✷✷

 

“But what _had_ happened to the servant?” the foreign merchant asked his friend, who had begun hiccupping at the end of his lurid description of the kiss. His friend loved his ale. In truth, though, the merchant had drunk quite a lot himself, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to remember everything that was said here in Camelot’s best tavern.

“Well, see,” his friend said, when his hiccups calmed to a manageable level, “their love was requited when the declarations were made. So the curse fell away and the poison dissolved. End of story.”

“No,” the merchant said, disbelievingly. “But what about King Uther?”

“Uther could not possibly execute the servant now, could he? Not when his lifeline and Arthur’s were tied up by the destinies foretold in lore long ago, blah blah blah. So they both lived. It couldn’t have been _easy_ , of course, not when the magic ban was still in place for many years—at least in name—and a good number of the knights still thought a servant held their prince in thrall. But somehow they managed all the same.” He blinked blearily. “That’s a story for another time, though.”

“You mean to say the servant is still alive?” asked the merchant. “Living in the castle? Serving King Arthur and the Priestess Morgana?”

“Oh, no, more than that!” his friend promised. “He is the king’s court sorcerer.”

“ _No_. The Good Wizard Merlin? _He_ was the servant?”

“The one and same,” his friend said, tapping his nose. “Now you know why the queen has a knight as a lover and no one begrudges her for it.”

“Blame her?” The merchant laughed. “By God, if _my_ king was buggered day and night I’d _hope_ my queen takes a lover.”

“Oi,” his friend said, pointing the bone of a chicken leg at the merchant’s nose. “Buggery or not, they’re fine rulers. Kept Camelot in peace for more than thirty years. Other royals steal, hoard, and war away the lives of the common folks. Ours engage in a little buggery or a little consensual cuckholding. There are worse vices to have.”

“You certainly are very loyal toward the entire Pendragon house,” the merchant laughed.

His friend was silent for a beat.

“Camelot’s proud of them,” he finally said.

The next day, the merchant woke up in his room in the tavern inn with a massive hangover. He remembered hearing the most marvelous story from his friend the night before, but the pieces of it were jumbled up in his head, leaving him with only the feelings of wonder and curiosity without their source. It was frustrating.

He sat down at his desk, a quill in hand. How did it go again? There was a curse, certainly. And there was a princess that slept around a lot? No, that wasn’t it— Oh yes, there was a curse of eternal sleep, casted over the princess of the kingdom. Then it was broken by a kiss, one bestowed by a true love—a prince, certainly!

He couldn’t quite catch all of the other details, but ah, he could fill them in himself.

So he dipped the quill in the inkpot, and at the top of a parchment, he wrote, _The Sleeping Beauty_.

He couldn’t wait to share it with his friends back home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The quote is, of course, from _Romeo and Juliet_ ’s famous party scene (Act I, Scene V): “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. / They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
> 
> This story took two years to write (though most of the second half was written over the course of three days), so I apologize for any choppiness/changes in writing style that occurred. I think, unfortunately, that I had a smoother style two years back then now. That comes at the cost of writing speed, I suppose!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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